


The Last Mask

by Some_Dwarven_Writer



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Assassination, F/M, The Game (Dragon Age), political maneuvering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 00:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17436428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Some_Dwarven_Writer/pseuds/Some_Dwarven_Writer
Summary: In one night the political landscape of Southern Thedas is changed forever. Despite Inquisitor Taerion Lavellan's hard work at the Winter Palace prior to Corypheus' death, Orlais is still a political hotbed. Now, years later and after the Exalted Council, none of the Game's biggest players fear the Inquisition. Still, this is a game that is never done and one in which a player can never quit.





	1. The Midnight Ride

**Author's Note:**

> This story is separated into extremely short segments and I'm very sorry for that! It was made to be posted onto an animo that prefers short blog posts too long. I hope the length doesn't take away from the experience for you. 
> 
> By the way... the Dragon Age Amino is pretty fun!
> 
> \- Nott

The moon shone full and silver across the vineyard’s many rows of grapevines. The light was undoubtedly beautiful as it caressed the long fields and softly touched the Antivan architecture that framed Josephine's view of the starry night sky. She breathed in the crips night air, letting it relax her lungs for a moment. When the breath escaped so did her tears. She’d held them in for so long that they fogged her view, distorting the world in simmering lines. It was a silent mourning that she endured. That was what he would have wanted but that thought only seemed to hurt her all the more. Josephine's mind was moving so fast that she couldn’t seem to sort anything out. She was devastated but it was more than that. She felt as though her whole world was shattering, the ground dropping out from beneath her feet. Every fiber of her being wanted to collapse and to never rise again. She couldn’t. She need to stand tall, now more than ever. That was what he would have wanted. So, with a sniffle she swallowed the lump in her throat and watched the dark blue shadows of dawn stretch across the awe inspiring sky. Why nature was still aloud to be so beautiful when everything in her life was suddenly being destroyed, she could not know.

Four words had done this to her. Four words had shaken her soul. The scroll had been ominous from the start. A rider had arrived in the middle of the night baring news from the Divine, Josephine's old friend, Leliana. The scroll had been sealed with the Inquisition’s sigil and the words on it had been brief. The ink bleed the author’s pain in every blotch and shaky letter. It was irrefutably real. Although brief, the scroll told Josephine everything she needed to know. Leliana had counseled her to wait until morning to head out for Val Royeaux but Josephine couldn’t. As it was she was likely already too late. The thought ripped apart her insides and she had to fight down another fit of tears.

“My lady,” the stable boy approached her, reigns in hand. He looked exhausted. The late hour wasn’t lost on him and neither was Josephine's urgency. The boy handed her the steed’s reigns and warned her to be cautions. She thanked him and bid him to return to bed. As she watched the boy walk away, her fears engulfed her. Without uttering a word she mounted the horse carefully and started off, steering it towards the many rows of twisted vines. 

As the boy had asked, she was cautious at first. She was careful to leave her family’s Estate in a dignified manner but as soon as she was free of their property, she urged her mount into a sprint. Withered forests and rocky terrain seemed to fly past her. The steed’s hooves haphazardly kicked up debris behind them but there wasn’t time to worry about her own safety. As dawn basked the world in hues of gold, Josephine pressed the scroll to her chest. She repeated the first line in her head over and over again like a mantra to keep her going. No matter how much her muscles hurt or how foolishly she rode, the words would lead her forward. The Inquisitor is dying.


	2. The Wrong Dagger

Grand Duke Gaspard de Chalons walked down the lengthy hallway, his footsteps and those of his guards echoing off the marble walls in ghostly whispers. His name and tile were both long lofty, although not nearly as extreme in either of those categories as he deserved. As it was, he wore them well. With his crisp military gate and rich silks he could do nothing else. As he walked, the darkness of night fully ascended outside of the Imperial Palace. Torches were soon the only source of real light and with the nature of flame, they made the shadows dance. Gaspard frowned. He didn’t have time to be absentmindedly walking down hallways. There was work to be done. Briala was making a move. Why else would she meet with the Inquisitor? Was she hoping to curry his favor? It wasn’t unlike the woman to use her womanly wiles to ascend beyond her station. Although, even Gaspard thought that was unlikely this time. It far more probable that she was trying to out maneuver the Inquisitor. That was all for the better, in the Grand Duke’s opinion. Let the knife ears squabble over scraps and leave the real war to him and Celene, as it should be.

Out of the corner of his eye Gaspard saw a shadow dash past him. He took another step, trying to act casual as his hand slowly lowered to the hilt of his sword. When he his foot meet the floor only one step bounced off of the walls. He swallowed and took another, turning on his heel, naked steel rigging. Before he could locate his enemy a dagger was pressed chillingly to his neck. His body was alive with energy, fear and anger mingled as he looked upon the assassin. The person was darkly clothed, in the mottled black assassins always wore. His lower face was covered but Gaspard could see his eyes, too green and too large to be human. He could also see the pointed ears that pulled at the edges of the assassin’s hood. Briala’s men.

“Well,” He hissed, “Are you going to do it or not, elf? This is sloppy work. Your mistress with be ashamed,” All the while he spoke, he looked for an opening but the elf held that dagger too close to his throat. There wasn't one. If he moved to attack he would die so instead he would have to trick this stupid creature into letting him go, “She’ll punish you. My death can’t be lazy.”

The knife eared assassin chuckled darkly, “There are only two real enemies the great Gaspard could ever have. Is that right? Only they could try to assassinate you. Except, you’ve been watching the wrong knife ear,” Before Gaspard could formulate a response something hit his shoulder and sunk in beneath the armor. The stinging pain was nothing, he could endure it but in the same moment another dagger crossed his throat. He felt himself falling. The ground welcomed him as he struggled to stem the flow of blood. It was so warm against his hands. It was his life. He had to do something! He couldn’t just die!! With one hand pressed to his neck, he used the other arm to pull himself along the ground. He had to keep going. If he could find help he might still live. Every movement hurt and it was as if the life was slowly being sapped out of him. He felt increasingly more cold and tired.

A hand grabbed his shoulder, stopping him. The same assassin's voice whispered in his ear, “The Blue Viper apologies for this inconveniences, Grad Duke.” Blue Viper? There was one man that could be. Gaspard bared his bloody teeth, trying to pull himself forward but to no avail. He felt his mind drifting away. He tried to secure himself to something, anything but he was dying. Damned knife ears. He was a great man! This couldn’t be how he died! Was it his imagination or were those footsteps? His vision blurred into darkness and he heard no more.


	3. Ghosts in the Night

There was only darkness and the soft swaying of her silk curtains. As Celene’s mind slowly woke she tried to place what had roused her. She’d been having a wonderful dream about times long past. They’d felt like a waking dream back then as well. How could have she known that they would turn into her worst nightmare. How easily simple pleasures could be twisted. Suddenly, out of the darkness, a face appeared behind the translucent curtain the framed the Empress’ bed. Celene gasped despite herself, pulling away from the side of her bed. She had a dagger hidden in her headboard, if only she could reach it she would be able to defend herself

“Empress,” The voice she recognized and it made her heart sink.

“Michel?” She whispered. Through the thin curtain she watched the face pull into an inhumane grin.

“If you like,” The voice had changed. It was distorted and twisted by malice but was not altogether unrecognizable.

Celene swallowed her fear and slid one of her arms under the pillows. She needed to keep his attention long enough to grab the knife, “Is he dead then, Imshael?”

The demon smiled wickedly and pushed back the curtain. The face that looked down upon Celene was horrifying. Where once there had been bright living eyes there were now only gray orbs, transfixed on nothing. The skin was too pale as if sapped of all blood, that is, were it still lingered. Along the jaw it had pulled away to reveal rotting teeth and charred bones. Celene pulled herself even further away from the demon. Terror gripped her heart in painful palpitations. What could she do against that? The demon laughed, it’s loose skin swaying with the motion, “Good, good! I see you are ready to make a choice.”

“And what choice would that be,” Celene asked, her voice shaking. In her haste to move away from the monster that hover over her she’d complete forgotten about the dagger. Part of her knew the attempt would be foolish if not fatal but she had to try something. Then again, if this demon could kill her old Champion, what change did she stand against it?

The demon settled down on the mattress, sitting like a vulture over a carcass, only he was both the carrion bird and its prey, “I am here to give a choice, Celene. Make me your champion,” He gestured to himself with a dead hand and suddenly all of the rotted features began to knit back together. A mask of Michel Du Chevin smiled down at the Empress and she detested it. Michel had betrayed her, yes but those circumstances had been difficult at best. She didn’t enjoy the idea of his death and she enjoyed the idea of a demon masquerading as him even less.

Straightening her posture Celene countered, “Why would I do that?” One of her hands pressed to the head board, searching for the secret compartment. The dagger was her only hope.

“Because,” The demon’s smile widened so it was devilishly inhuman, “If you don’t do as we say, he’s promised me Orlais!” the cold laughter echoed across the room and Celene felt herself going numb. This couldn’t be happening. It had to be a bad dream. “Oh, I am many bad dreams, Empress,” Imshael said, “But I am not so easily banished by a dagger.”

She sighed retracting her hand from were it had been groping for the blade. It was missing after all. Imshael must have taken it. Looking to the demon she spoke, “What will you gain if I make you my Champion?”

“You will do everything we say or you will die and Orlais will be mine,” The demon smiled, “I know it seems like a poor deal but I promise you I am taking just as much of a chance as you are. As it is currently, I am not where your orders will be coming from. There is a viper in your midsts, dear Empress and he loves to wear blue.” Her eyebrows knitted with confusion. A serpent in blue? Then she realized who it must be. With all that charm and compassion, he had been her true enemy all along. She should have known. He really was too good to be true.

“What will he have of me?” She asked, her jaw quivering.

“He will have you live. You’ve won your little game for the Empire, Celene. The throne is securely yours, that is, until a more promising person can take it from you,” The demon chuckled darkly and realization washed over Celene. The throne was securely hers? She swallowed the old heartbreak and let the new mourning superseded it. Gaspard and Briala would both be found dead by the morning. Celene might still die as well, if she played her cards wrong. As for now, she would have to agree to whatever he offered. With time, she would hopefully be able to outplay this new competitor. Now that she knew who her enemy was, it would be far easier to destroy him and for what he’d most likely done to her former lover, she would make him pay.

After collecting herself Celene hissed under her breath, “Fine, demon. I will take this deal, if in return you promise not to harm my people.”

Imshael clapped, “Oh, what a choice! Thank you, Empress.” With that, he vanished without agreeing to her terms. As the night wound on Celene found herself pleading for sleep and hoping that when she woke the nightmare would finally be over.


	4. The Viper's Fangs

Briala swirled the fine wine, watching the red liquid spin around the glass. The Inquisitor watched her intently. His eyes had always unnerved her. There was something wrong about them that she just couldn’t shake off. Everything else about the Inquisitor was so painfully perfect. He was graceful, kind and selfless. The Inquisitor was a proper leader. Everyone loved him and Briala had to admit that she’d been fooled by that mask when she’d first met him as well. Now, of course, she knew better.

“Why are we here, Inquisitor?” She asked simply, her eyes flashing up to his face. A mask sat there, covering most of his curved vallaslin in a bold silver sheen. The design of the mask twisted around his features, curving like a coiled rope.

The Inquisitor smiled with his charming grin that could make all manner of powerful people swoon, “Because I asked for your company, Ambassador. I needed to see you.”

“If I have not made it clear, your actions have drove a divide between us. I do not trust you, Lavellan and I will not help you,” She hissed the words, watching for his reaction but there was none. The Inquisitor smiled and nodded as if expecting this.

“I completely understand,” He sighed and sipped his wine, “I would never work with you either but of course I don’t need to,” Briala narrowed her eyes and the elven man went on, “I always liked you the best but it would be impossible to give you the throne personally. It will be hard enough to take it for myself but after I am assuredly proven to be the Maker chosen, I suspect more humans will be less opposed to my rule.”

“What are you talking about?” Briala spat, “You are mad!”

The Inquisitor chuckled, “Some have speculated that but I like to say that I am eccentric and, of course, correct. I am the only person who is correct, sweet little Briala.”

“I do not know what has gotten into you but I will not listen to this lunacy,” She threw back her chair and stood. Immediately the whole empty parlor began to swim before eyes. She had to grasp onto the table as to stop herself from falling.

“That would be the poison,” The Inquisitor smiled and his malicious grin seemed to contort his features into a darker expression that Briala had never seen before. It frightened her almost more than his words, “You are dying. I apologize for that. It was a waste and you could have been an invaluable tool. I just wish I could have gotten to you before that lovely Empress of yours. Your people really did find it horrendous that you’d not only sleep with your enemy but also help her kill your own parents. That is truly evil, my dear,” Briala’s heart sank. He couldn’t have. The lie was too bold! No one could believe something like that but as she watched the Inquisitor she knew he was telling the truth. Briala needed to find a way out of this situation immediately, “Of course, Gaspard’s death by two of your elvish assassins will be unexpected. You got sloppy near the end, they’ll say. Well that is, until they stop talking about you all together and everyone forgets some knife eared revolutionist named Briala ever existed. A tragedy really. You could have done so many good things,” The Inquisitor’s head lulled.

“Why?” Briala hissed between clenched jaws. Her vision was smudging on the edges. Her throat burned and she felt light headed. It wasn’t long now. She had to think, to do something, anything but her mind was moving too slow.

“Because I am the only one who can save Thedas,” The Inquisitor growled, anger twisting his words for the first time. He shook his head, rubbing a hand over his mouth, “It’s not long now. We’ll both be dead soon,” At Briala’s befuddled stair he explained, “You see, I would be the obvious culprit of your assassination if I came out unscathed, so I poisoned myself as well. I am the Maker’s chosen and I can and will live through this. I will prove myself to once again be Thedas’ only hope.”

“You’re an actually proper lunatic,” Briala laughed bitterly despite the darkness taking her vision, “I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. You really believe all of that. You actually think you’re some chosen savior, predestined to save us all from our own idiocy,” She shook her head but the action made her dizzy. She opened her mouth the chastise him more but only a choked croak came out. Panic clutched her chest and she tried to breath but it was difficult. A thump attracted her attention, across the table, the Inquisitor had fallen unconscious. The Maker’s chosen was drooling on his table cloth. It would have been funny but everything was slipping out from under Briala as well. She didn’t have anything but… but a knife hidden in her boot. Swaying, Briala reached for the knife. It was her last hope, she had to slit his throat. She had to be certain he would die. He could not be allowed to control Orlais! She reached, her finger tips touching the cool hilt of the knife as darkness swallowed her whole.


	5. Corruption

Tristian watched himself. He watched his hand clench and unclench. His watched his nervous eye twitch and his unsteady stance. Tristian sighed heavily, looking away from the mirror.

“Are you alright?” Anora’s kind voice chipped away at Tristian’s fading confidence. How could he do this? He was already living a lie, doing this to her would be so much worse! Anora was a Queen and Tristain already didn’t deserve her on any level. If he did this, Tristian would prove himself just as horrible of a person as her father had been. That would be a great look. He was sure that this would go over swimmingly and that he’d definitely continue to be the Prince of Ferelden after all of this blew over. Although, once she found out everything, he doubted she would want to share her bed with him anymore. Tristian supposed it had been fun while it lasted. He had to do this.

“It’s just,” Tristian began, “What it always is.” It wasn’t a lie, per se. The calling was constantly ringing in his ears and the noise did grate on him. Noise was a bit of a bad description. It was more like music, horrible and beautiful music. Tristain loved and hated it. It drove him mad and he supposed that was the point.

“Why must you be tortured, my love?” Anora strolled over to his side, wrapping one of her arm around his, “You are a good man.”

Tristian smiled, ruefully and with his free arm grabbed a book that had been left on the desk before the mirror, “Maybe it’s because I’m not a good man. I am sorry, Anora. You have always deserved better than me,” Before her confused eyes could turn on him, Tristian whacked her in the back of the head with the book as hard as he could. She fell into his arms. Gingerly, he lifted her limp body and carried her to the bed. That was where he bound and gagged her. He could be killed for this, in fact he very well might be. As he stared down at his wife’s unconscious visage, Tristian felt a painful bought of guilt wracking his gut. He didn’t have a choice but it still hurt. He’d pay for this choice in one way or another and he knew it. He’d deserve it too. Tristian should have never became prince. It was his own blind childishness that had put him in that position and now it was not only killing him but also his son.

Tristian retraced his steps back to the mirror. He looked at his reflection, really looked and he saw the corruption everywhere. Dark veins criss crossed his arms and chest, turn skin grey. His hair was slowly falling out and eyes were dulling. He was a walking corpse and said corpse had just knocked out the Queen of Ferelden to lock her in quarters and rule in her stead. This was, of course, a brilliant idea. Tristian had a lot of those. They often made him a Prince or got his whole family killed. Shaking his head, Trsitan braced himself against the desk and looked down at the letter that had sealed his fate for the last time.

 

‘Prince Cousland,

I hope this letter reaches you well. I heard that you were feeling under the weather of late. I sincerely hope your love will be able to find that cure you so desperately need. Let us not speak of tragedies, you are, after all, a great man and your inevitable death will be a tragedy. Recently your son has come under my wing. While his mother searches desperately to save you, Kieran is here with the Inquisition. I am honored to call him my ward. He will learn everything the Inquisition has to offer. Although, I cannot promise his complete safety. I know you care for your bastard and I know you care for his mother. You do well to hide it but you can’t hide it from everyone and I know everyone.

All I wish is for your happiness, Cousland. I wish that you would reevaluated your position on that gruesome business with the apostates. Again, all I want is for you to hand them over. They are traitors and blood mages. I pray for your health. May the Maker watch over you and your lineage.

My sincerest condolences,

Inquisitor Taerion Lavellan’


	6. To the Victor

Every single part of Taerion’s body ached but the burning thirst was the most unbearable part. He swallow only to find his throat felt like sandpaper. Taerion groaned and tried to shake away the fog. It almost felt like he’d been dying over and over again for years. Everything hurt but that was a good sign and we was, nevertheless alive.

“Hush,” A soft voice called to Taerion out of the void and a damp cloth was pressed to his forehead. He mumbled his gratitude but no real words came out. If he’d known poisoning would feel this terrible he might not have done it. Then again, he needed to. He’d lived after all. He was fate’s chosen one, as he’d reasoned. Therefore, his use of the antidote was more a precaution than anything else.

Taerion’s crusted eyes slowly blinked open. Only one person sat beside him. A woman of dark coloring, her hair was more of a mess than he’d ever thought possible. That uncomfortable feeling he only ever got around the woman twisted at his gut. He’d hurt with this stunt, hadn’t he? He felt more sick. When he spoke it took all of his energy. He voice was as cracked and broken as his throat and as weak as he felt “Josephine?”

“I am here,” She whispered with a smile that was more pain that happiness. That just made the twisting of his gut all the more intense.

Taeron frowned and shook his head, looking away from the beautiful woman who sat before him, “I am sorry. I hurt you…” He took a wheezing breath, “And I cannot make up for that.”

Josephine shook her head, her eyes brimming with tears, “You can’t blame yourself. It was Gaspard who tried to assassinate you and Briala. I should have been here right away. I wish I’d been here you first awoke.” Taerion had first awoken to be greeted by the gnarled old face of the mage that had been healing him. It hadn’t been what he’d hoped for but Josephine had rushed to his side, there had just been so far to travel.

Taerion smiled sadly, “It’s not your fault,” That was what she wanted to hear. With a weak hand he brushed away her tears. It was in that moment that he made his decision, “Josephine, will you marry me?” the woman froze, her wide gray eyes turning on the bed ridden elf. He explained, “While I was… dying,” He gasped for another breath. It was painful but also need to tell her this truth, if he could not tell her any of the others, “The only thing I regretted was… this.”

She nodded pulling his pale hand to her lips, “Yes. Of course I will marry you, Taerion.” Joy washed over the weakened elf’s body. He smiled and with shaky arms he force himself to rise despite Josephine’s complaints. He hugged her, tears welling up in his eyes. He’d finally done it. He’d gotten everything he could ever want. He had won!


End file.
